THE SATURDAY DISTEMPER

Last night I waited for the phone to ring. And waited. And waited. To no avail. By which I mean that I had sent out a query on facebook, and did not receive any answers.

No, this is NOT a tale of sadness, but rather one of practicality. Normally, on Saturday night, I head down to a familiar place to enjoy one or two pipes in peace and quiet. Except that whenever a certain person there takes the night off -- inexplicable, as he only works ONE evening a week -- a certain other person gets his shift; someone of an entirely different bend.
A person whom some have named Chewbaca.
Or Chewzilla. Either or.

Suffice to say that said individual is not one of my favourite people.

I seek foreknowledge before I head on over.

I am not an idiot.


*   *   *

So, given that the radar system wasn't working (at least, not until very much later), I stayed in and prepared myself curry-fried noodles with gailan and smoked bacon, while listening to the prosperous yuppies across the lot partying loudly and screaming.

An endeavor which I suspect involved overmuch beer on their part.

Beer is often the fundament on which a judgement fail is built.

Usually those with the least sense rely on the most beer.

Voices are raised further with each bottle

I very rarely consume beer.

I am not an idiot.


*   *   *

Excessive quantities of chili paste, chopped ginger, and shrimp paste.

It would have been perfect with a bottle of beer.

Of which there wasn't a drop.

I am an idiot.



AFTERWORD

The radar system finally squawked long after I had regretted my intemperance with the chili paste, ginger, and shrimp paste.
After the boozers across the lot began to sing.
I didn't even have that much to eat.
Saved some for tonight.
I am an idiot.




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